


To Honor Those We Lost

by ladyhoneydarlinglove



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dia le los Meurtos, Established Relationship, Halloween, M/M, McGenji Week, Post Recall, Prompt - Halloween/Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 08:42:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8438965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyhoneydarlinglove/pseuds/ladyhoneydarlinglove
Summary: McCree and Angela go to Los Angeles to honor their old mentor; Genji tags along.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I kind of barfed this out at the last minute and it's not really McGenji so much as me projecting a lot of personal feelings onto poor McCree but at this point I have literally stopped caring. It's unedited, so sorry for any mistakes.
> 
> Also, I am not Latnix, and anything I know about Dia de los Muertos is gleaned from Wikipedia articles and watching The Book of Life, so if any Latinx readers have any issues with how I portrayed it here, please _please_ let me know and I will change things accordingly!

The first night McCree spends at the old Watchpoint: Gibraltar base after the Recall, Angela confesses to him—and only him—the full extent of her knowledge about the terrorist known as Reaper.

She breaks down in tears halfway through her explanation, great heaving sobs wracking the whole of her slender frame as she buries her face in her hands, babbling nonsensically about the UN and Reyes and the failure of her Cacadeus technology. McCree pulls them away, wraps his arms around Angela, and lets her cry into his shoulder. Twenty minutes pass before her muffled wailing subsides, giving way to quieter tears punctuated by the occasional sniffle. “I’ve messed up your shirt,” she mumbles mournfully, tugging at the snot and tear stained fabric.

McCree shrugs. “I have more,” he says. “‘Sides, snot comes out easy compared to blood.”

Angela laughs; it borders on hysterical, so McCree pulls her back into his arms. She comes easily, wrapping her arms around his torso, chin resting on his shoulder. “Did you know?” she asks.

“Course I knew.” Reaper is many things; subtle is not one of them. “Though I suppose I never considered you being a part of it.”

Angela sniffles. “Are you angry with me?” she whispers, so quiet McCree barely hears her.

McCree considers. “Did you mean to do it?” he asks, after a pause.

She makes a noise halfway between a laugh and sob. “I meant to  _ save  _ him,” she answers emphatically. “The UN was adamant—they wanted answers—I told them the technology wasn’t ready but—” She lets out another sob, small and broken. “I didn’t think it had  _ worked _ ,” she confesses. “I only tried once and it didn’t—I knew he wouldn’t have wanted—something must have happened afterwards, something—”

She doesn’t finish, breaking down into quiet tears once more. McCree, too tired to bother holding back anymore, follows suit.

In the end, while Angela elects to share her best guess as to the condition of Reaper and how they might best go about countering his unique abilities, neither of them divulges his former identity. Angela does not wish to further taint his already blackened memory, and McCree simply sees no point. As far as McCree’s concerned, Gabriel Reyes died in the explosion at the Swiss HQ, and whatever rose from the ashes is just a thing to put back in the grave.

* * *

The new Overwatch comes together, slowly but surely. Delight abounds when Reinhardt and Torbjorn answer the call, veterans unwilling to give up the fight just yet. Fareeha follows shortly after, ecstatic to be a part of the organization she always dreamed of joining, even under less than legal circumstances. The day Genji arrives, he actually leaps into McCree’s arms, sending them both into a spectacular collision with the floor. Happiness exudes from Genji in waves as he helps a grumbling McCree stand, laughing at his own ridiculous antics, and McCree can’t wipe the grin from his face for the rest of the evening.

It isn’t perfect; bickering and arguments abound as everyone adjusts, and the threat of the law hovers over them, a grey cloud threatening at any moment to burst into a storm. But families are never perfect, and if McCree has to argue endlessly with Winston and Tracer about mission plans and hold his tongue when Reyes’ name spills with disgust from those who were still with Overwatch when it fell, he considers it a fair price to pay for getting to eat dinner with a crowd of people, and fall asleep with Genji in his arms.

A few days before Halloween, Angela asks McCree if he intends to go to Los Angeles anytime soon.

McCree squints at her. “Why?” he asks innocently, and receives a harsh smack on the arm in return.

“You know why,” Angela says admonishingly.

McCree sighs, rubbing his arm where she hit him. “I want to,” he answers. “But I reckon if we say where we’re going there’s gonna be more questions than I wanna answer, and sneakin’ out’ll be hard with Athena monitoring everything.”

“Does that mean you won’t try?” Angela asks, a challenge evident in her tone.

McCree laughs. “Didn’t say that. Just know we’re probably gonna get caught.”

They do, barely three steps into the hangar bay. McCree expects Winston or Tracer; he can’t decide if he’s more or less relieved when it’s Genji, who drops down from the ceiling with no warning, startling McCree and nearly giving poor Angela a heart attack. “Where are you going?” he asks, nodding at their small travel bags. “I did not think Winston had assigned any missions recently.”

Next to him, Angela lets out a small squeak. McCree nudges her in the ribs, silently willing her to let him do the talking. “We were gonna try and go out for a couple days,” he says, smile wide, posture relaxed, drawl just a little thicker.

“Go where?” Genji flicks his shuriken in and out of their mechanism idly, daring McCree to lie.

Damn him. “Los Angeles,” McCree admits.

“And you did not tell anybody this… why?” Genji asks. He sheaths the shuriken, but crosses his arms in a manner that conveys his annoyance.

“Am I allowed to say personal reasons or is that gonna get me kicked to the rec room couch?” McCree asks.

Genji pauses. “I will not kick you out,” he decides. “But I am very disappointed that you are keeping secrets from me, Jesse.”

McCree winces. “That hurts, darlin’.”

“Yes, I know,” Genji replies, sounding entirely too smug.

“If you must know, Genji,” Angela says, reaching out to touch his arm gently, “we had wanted to visit the grave of a fallen comrade. Just the two of us. That’s all.”

It’s a valiant attempt at appeasement, but unfortunately for them, Genji is quick on the uptake. “In Los Angeles?” He tilts his head to the right; a frown. “You mean to visit the grave of Commander Reyes.”

McCree sighs, giving up. Genji’s too sharp to bother trying to fool. “Yup.”

A tense silence falls between them for a few moments before Genji nods. “Very well,” Genji says. “Then I shall accompany you.”

McCree blinks. “Come again?” he says at the same time Angela gasps, “Pardon?”

“You wish to avoid arousing suspicion, do you not?” Genji replies. “The three of us traveling together will look far less suspect than just the two of you. We can say I require parts for an upgrade, and that Angela must be there on site to implement then. Jesse is our backup in case trouble shows.”

It’s a solid plan, and far more likely to succeed than McCree and Angela sneaking off on their own. Still, McCree hesitates. “Darlin’, not that I don’t appreciate the offer,” he says, “but we’re not exactly going to LA for an impromptu vacation.”

Genji cocks his head in a manner that gives the distinct impression of a raised eyebrow. “I am aware,” he says patiently.

“We’re just… not sure if you would understand,” Angela says, brow furrowed in concern.

“Why would I not understand?” Genji asks.

“Well it ain’t like there’s much love lost between Reyes and the rest of our little group here,” McCree answers. He’s lost count of the number of insults he’s heard hurled Reyes’ way by now.

Genji scoffs, waving his hand dismissively. “You think I would judge you for wanting to honor a man who was your mentor, who gave you a home, a family, a sense of belonging, for the better part of your adult life?” He tilts his chin up slightly, head held high in a gesture symbolic of a smile. “You do remember I recently extended an offer of forgiveness to a brother who essentially murdered me in cold blood, yes?”

Which, McCree concedes, is an extremely valid point.

In the end, Genji’s plan comes together flawlessly. Winston doesn’t bat an eyelash when they ask for a transport, only laughs and asks Angela if she’s really sure she wants to be alone with the two of them. “I’ve seen you on the balconies,” he says, looking at McCree. “You get handsy.”

McCree scoffs, pulling his hat down over his face in a failed attempt to hide the redness of his cheeks. Angela laughs. “I can keep them in line,” she assures Winston. “And I can always threaten to leave them behind, if needed.”

“Do I get handsy?” McCree asks Genji once they’re in the air, drumming his fingers restlessly against his armrest. “I don’t think I get handsy.”

“You do,” Genji answers without hesitation, “but there is no need to be embarrassed. I enjoy your enthusiasm.” He shoots McCree a look that has McCree red for an entirely different reason, and he chuckles.

“That so?” he asks, deliberately sliding a hand to Genji’s thigh, only to yelp as Angela smacks the back of his head.

“No hanky panky in the transport please!” she chirps politely.

* * *

The first time McCree came to Los Angeles, he’d come with Reyes, who had decided McCree needed to experience a proper Dia de los Muertos celebration after McCree had walked into his office and asked what the little setup of marigolds and food in front of a photo was for. He’d complained endlessly on the way there, telling Reyes that he wasn’t a child, that he didn’t care about his culture or heritage, that Reyes was taking a stupid and unnecessary risk by bringing McCree to meet his family.

Reyes, in true Reyes form, pointedly ignored every complaint hurled his way in silence. Indeed, he didn’t say much of anything to McCree until they arrived in the lively neighborhood, in full swing of both Halloween and Dia de los Muertos celebrations. They walked from a hovertrain station to Reyes’ old house, and McCree could still recall how fast his jaw dropped when a gaggle of children dressed in black beanies and grey hoodies with cardboard or plastic shotguns had run up to Reyes, squealing in delight as he scooped at least four of them up in his arm with a large smile. They spoke in Spanish so fast McCree could barely comprehend it, but Reyes had chatted with all of them happily until their parents had come by, and then he had spoken easily with them as well.

“You planning on catching some flies with that mouth,  _ vaquero _ ?” he chuckled when the parents had finally left.

McCree, unable to form an articulate response, continued to gape, pointing wordlessly at the children. Reyes shrugged. “I like kids,” he said.

“Why are they all dressed like you?” McCree managed to ask.

Reyes laughed. “It’s Halloween, dipshit,” he said. “They’re in costumes.”

“All of them?”

Reyes smiled, cracked and bitter. “Guess some people still think I’m a hero.”

Twenty-some years later, the streets weren’t overflowing with tiny Gabriel Reyes’, but McCree could still pick out black beanies and grey hoodies amongst the crowds of children roaming the streets. For all that media and rumors and the UN had done to destroy his reputation, it seemed Gabriel Reyes would remain a hero to some.

McCree waits outside a corner store while Angela and Genji purchase marigolds and snacks. He blends in well with the crowds tonight, cowboy getup almost boring compared to the brightly colored costumes surrounding him, rife with neon and metallic and glitter. A group of children walk past, chatting happily as they compare candy and laugh at jokes McCree can’t hear. One of them straggles behind the rest, calling to her friends that her mama wanted her to pick up orange juice, and she’ll see them later.

She turns toward the corner store, stopping when she sees McCree. She wears a black beanie and a grey hoodie, and large knee pads painted silver. In one hand she carries a fake shotgun; the other holds her pillowcase full of candy. Her head tilts to the side, brown eyes staring at him curiously.

“Howdy,” McCree greets, tipping his hat to her.

She giggles. “I like your costume,” the kid grins. “Are you the Gunslinger from Junkenstein’s Revenge?”

McCree laughs. “Naw, I’m just a regular ol’ cowboy,” he answers. “Gunslinger’s too fancy for me.”

“Oh. Well, regular cowboys are cool too.” She peers to his side. “Is that a real gun?”

“Yup. Don’t worry though, it ain’t loaded.” He pulls Peacekeeper out, opening up the empty chamber for her to see.

Brown eyes widen as she shuffles closer in unabashed curiosity. “Woah! That’s so cool!” Her eyes dart to his belt buckle. “What does BAMF mean?” she asks.

“Bad At Making Friends,” McCree answers easily. He’d gotten plenty of practice with that question when he’d first met a then twelve-year-old Fareeha. “Cowboys are loners, you know.”

“Oh.” The kid frowns. “Well, I’d be your friend,” she says. “You seem pretty cool.”

“Well ain’t that sweet of you,” McCree laughs. “What’s your costume, little lady?”

The kid draws herself up, puffing out her chest proudly. “I’m Gabriel Reyes, hero of the Omnic Crisis,” she declares. Her eyes glint with something McCree recognizes as a challenge.

“Yeah?” McCree grins. “That’s a great costume. I like it.”

The smile drops from the kid’s face, and she squints at him. “Really?” she asks, and then adds, in Spanish, «Are you Latino?»

McCree blinks, the question catching him off guard for a moment before he laughs. «Maybe,» he answers, smiling down at her. «Why?»

The girl huffs. «Because white people don’t get it,» she says. «They all think Gabriel Reyes is bad. But you like my costume. So you must know that he’s a hero.»

Something painful tugs at McCree’s chest, and he tamps down a torrent of emotions he’s not prepared to handle at present. «Of course,» he answers, trying to keep up him smile for the kid’s sake. «Reyes saved the world from the Omnic Crisis. He’ll always be a hero.»

He pulls off his hat, plopping it on top of her head to break the tension. She laughs as it falls down over his eyes. «Hey!» She lifts the brim with both hands, smiling up at McCree before her gaze drifts to the side, and her brow furrows. “What are you you supposed to be?” she asks in English, voice rising in volume.

McCree turns his head, heart freezing inside his chest as Genji walks up behind him, carrying a shopping bag. “Excuse me?” he asks, tilting his head curiously.

“Your costume.” The kid squints at him, face scrunching up in dislike. “Are you trying to be an omnic?”

Panic wells up in McCree’s chest, opening his mouth to chide the kid for being rude when Genji laughs. “Ah, you mean my halloween costume?” He strikes a pose. “I am a cyborg ninja.” His biolights glow brighter for effect, casting strange green shadows around him.

McCree stares at him. The kid frowns. “A cyborg ninja? I’ve never heard of that,” she says.

“That is because I am the first.” Genji tilts his chin up. “Original, is it not?”

“I guess.” She huffs. “Sounds made up though. What does a cyborg ninja even do?” There’s a challenge in her tone again, and she crosses her arms. A taunt.

“Hmm. A fair point. Perhaps a demonstration is in order.” Genji sets down the shopping bag and draws his sword, holding the blade steadily in front of him. “Mr. Cowboy, a pumpkin, if you please?”

McCree stares at him. “What about a pumpkin?” McCree is still having trouble getting past the ‘Genji laughing at being called an omnic’ bit.

“Bring me a pumpkin,” Genji repeats patiently. “The young lady wants a demonstration.”

McCree remains baffled, but obliges, walking over to the small display of pumpkins outside the corner store. The kid watches him, attempting to seem unimpressed, though her eyes keep returning to Genji’s sword. McCree places a smaller pumpkin on the end. Despite the weight, Genji remains balanced and unmoved.

“Watch closely,” he tells the kid.

McCree blinks, and the pumpkin is in the air, bright green flashes hitting the surface several times as Genji strikes over and over again. When it hits the ground, a bears a newly carved face.

The kid shrieks, the sound ringing harshly in McCree’s ears. “Holy crap, that was so cool!” she squeals, hands fluttering excitedly around her mouth. “I’ve never seen anything like it! How did you  _ do  _ that?”

Genji laughs, sheathing his blade. “Years and years of practice and training,” he says.

Her face scrunches up. “That sounds hard,” she complains.

“It is. Very hard,” Genji agrees. He picks up the pumpkin, neatly wiping away the bits of stringy insides that have spilled out. “Which is why I am the only one.” He holds out the pumpkin to her. “Would you like to keep it?”

Her eyes go wide. “Really?” she whisper shouts.

“The demonstration was for your benefit, was it not?”

She squeaks, rushing forward to take the pumpkin with shaking hands. “Oh my gosh, thank you, thank you, this is so neat, I can’t wait to show all my friends!” she babbles, bouncing on her heels in excitement. “I’ve gotta get orange juice before the store closes but—but it was so nice meeting you! And you too, cowboy!” She giggles, running to the door of the corner store just as Angela steps out, holding a wreath of marigolds and sporting a bright green witch hat. She eyes the girl running into the store, then turn to Genji and McCree with a raised eyebrow.

“What have you been up to?” she asks.

McCree snorts. “Nothin’. Genji was just being a show off,” he mutters.

Genji lifts his head high, easily sliding next to McCree. “You love it,” he accuses, and McCree can imagine his eyes glittering with mirth behind his faceplate.

McCree laughs. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I kind of do.”

He grabs Genji by the arm, tugging him closer. Genji tilts his head higher, and McCree presses a kiss to his faceplate. In the background, he hears Angela sighs heavily, can see her rolling her eyes without having to look.

“Come on, you two,” she chides, though her wide smile betrays her. “We still have someplace to be.”

* * *

The small marker would be easy to miss if McCree didn’t know to look for it. A simple plaque of black granite, engraved with a short message.  _ In memory of Gabriel Reyes _ ,  _ hero of the Omnic Crisis.  _ He ought to have had a spot in Arlington, but with no body and a tarnished memory, the US Army had declined to give him the honor. His family had made the plaque and set it in the family plot before they all left Los Angeles, unable to bear staying. There hadn’t even been a proper funeral.

The plaque lies bare, in stark contrast to most of the other headstones already adorned with colorful paper flags, bright marigolds, trinkets and food to honor the dead. Candles burn everywhere, casting a warm glow about the small cemetery. A few families are gathered, chatting and laughing loudly as they swap stories and share food. The smell of something baked and sweet wafts through the air.

The altar they set up isn’t much. A single wreath of marigolds and a small sugar skull. A bag of sabritones, a pan dulce, and a Coke. Angela hands McCree a plain white candle, which he lights before setting it down with care next to the plaque. He opens the case where he keeps his cigars, and pulls out a single cigarette, hand rolled. The one vice Gabriel Reyes never managed to kick, despite his best efforts. He holds it to the flame of the candle, and when it begins to smoke and smolder, he sets it next to the sugar skull.

Angela has started crying quietly; Genji places a hand on her arm, and she grips in tightly. McCree opens his mouth to speak, saw a few words, but his throat swells shut and he struggles against the sting forming behind his eyes. Wordlessly, he slips his arm around Angela; she buries her face in his shoulder to muffle her weeping.

“It’s ok, Angie,” McCree manages to mumble, his voice so thick he can barely understand himself. “It’s gonna be ok.”

Genji moves, stepping to McCree’s other side. He slides an arm around McCree’s waist, resting his head lightly against McCree’s other shoulder. He says nothing, but the weight of him grounds McCree, makes it easier to push back his tears and the torrent of emotions that threatens to spill over.

Someday, McCree thinks, he’ll deal with his shit properly. But not now.

* * *

Later, in their cheap motel room, Genji curls up next to McCree on the uncomfortable bed, tracing soft patterns over his belly. “Jesse, may I ask you something?” he says, voice whisper quiet.

“Course darlin’.” McCree turns his head, placing a kiss on the top on Genji’s head.

Genji sighs, nuzzling closer. “What…” He pauses for a moment, then tries again. “What will you do when we encounter Reaper?”

The question isn’t entirely unexpected, though McCree tenses anyway, wondering vaguely when Genji put the pieces together. It’s lingered in the back of his mind for some time now, ever since he first heard of the thing that called itself Reaper. He can’t pretend it doesn’t make him sick, to think of Reaper and know behind the skull mask lies some dark, twisted, horrifying impersonation of Gabriel Reyes. He can’t pretend he doesn’t balk at the thought of facing him on the battlefield, the shadow of man who might have known McCree better than McCree knows himself. He can’t pretend his hands won’t shake, or his aim waver.

He also can’t pretend that his answer has ever been anything but simple.

“Kill him.”

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway I have a lot of feelings and opinions of Gabriel Reyes' reputation in the Latinx community and how he would have been held up as a hero long, long after everyone else gave up on him.


End file.
